The Paradise Mystery by J. S. Fletcher (simple e reader TXT) 📗

“Anybody come forward about that reward your stepfather offered?” asked Bryce.

“I'm not permitted to say,” answered Sackville. “But,” he added, leaning closer to his companion across the table, “I can tell you this—there's wheels within wheels! You understand! And things'll be coming out. Got to! We can't—as a family—let Ransford lie under that cloud, don't you know. We must clear him. That's precisely why Mr. Folliot offered his reward. Ransford, of course, you know, Bryce, is very much to blame—he ought to have done more himself. And, of course, as my mother and my stepfather say, if Ransford won't do things for himself, well, we must do 'em for him! We couldn't think of anything else.”

“Very good of you all, I'm sure,” assented Bryce. “Very thoughtful and kindly.”

“Oh, well!” said Sackville, who was incapable of perceiving a sneer or of knowing when older men were laughing at him. “It's one of those things that one's got to do—under the circumstances. Of course, Miss Bewery isn't Dr. Ransford's daughter, but she's his ward, and we can't allow suspicion to rest on her guardian. You leave it to me, my boy, and you'll see how things will be cleared!”

“Doing a bit underground, eh?” asked Bryce.

“Wait a bit!” answered Sackville with a knowing wink. “It's the least expected that happens—what?”

Bryce replied that Sackville was no doubt right, and began to talk of other matters. He hung about the club-house until past three o'clock, and then, being well acquainted with Mary Bewery's movements from long observation of them, set out to walk down towards Wrychester, leaving his bicycle behind him. If he did not meet Mary on the way, he meant to go to the house. Ransford would be out on his afternoon round of calls; Dick Bewery would be at school; he would find Mary alone. And it was necessary that he should see her alone, and at once, for since morning an entirely new view of affairs had come to him, based on added knowledge, and he now saw a chance which he had never seen before. True, he said to himself, as he walked across the links and over the country which lay between their edge and Wrychester, he had not, even now, the accurate knowledge as to the actual murderer of either Braden or Collishaw that he would have liked, but he knew something that would enable him to ask Mary Bewery point-blank whether he was to be friend or enemy. And he was still considering the best way of putting his case to her when, having failed to meet her on the way, he at last turned into the Close, and as he approached Ransford's house, saw Mrs. Folliot leaving it.

Mary Bewery, like Bryce, had been having a day of events. To begin with, Ransford had received a wire from London, first thing in the morning, which had made him run, breakfastless, to catch the next express. He had left Mary to make arrangements about his day's work, for he had not yet replaced Bryce, and she had been obliged to seek out another practitioner who could find time from his own duties to attend to Ransford's urgent patients. Then she had had to see callers who came to the surgery expecting to find Ransford there; and in the middle of a busy morning, Mr. Folliot had dropped in, to bring her a bunch of roses, and, once admitted, had shown unmistakable signs of a desire to gossip.

“Ransford out?” he asked as he sat down in the dining-room. “Suppose he is, this time of day.”

“He's away,” replied Mary. “He went to town by the first express, and I have had a lot of bother arranging about his patients.”

“Did he hear about this discovery of the Saxonsteade jewels before he went?” asked Folliot. “Suppose he wouldn't though—wasn't known until the weekly paper came out this morning. Queer business! You've heard, of course?”

“Dr. Short told me,” answered Mary. “I don't know any details.”

Folliot looked meditatively at her a moment.

“Got something to do with those other matters, you know,” he remarked. “I say! What's Ransford doing about all that?”

“About all what, Mr. Folliot?” asked Mary, at once on her guard. “I don't understand you.”

“You know—all that suspicion—and so on,” said Folliot. “Bad position for a professional man, you know—ought to clear himself. Anybody been applying for that reward Ransford offered?”

“I don't know anything about it,” replied Mary. “Dr. Ransford is very well able to take care of himself, I think. Has anybody applied for yours?”

Folliot rose from his chair again, as if he had changed his mind about lingering, and shook his head.

“Can't say what my solicitors may or may not have heard—or done,” he answered. “But—queer business, you know—and ought to be settled. Bad for Ransford to have any sort of a cloud over him. Sorry to see it.”

“Is that why you came forward with a reward?” asked Mary.

But to this direct question Folliot made no answer. He muttered something about the advisability of somebody doing something and went away, to Mary's relief. She had no desire to discuss the Paradise mysteries with anybody, especially after Ransford's assurance of the previous evening. But in the middle of the afternoon in walked Mrs. Folliot, a rare caller, and before she had been closeted with Mary five minutes brought up the subject again.

“I want to speak to you on a very serious matter, my dear Miss Bewery,” she said. “You must allow me to speak plainly on account of—of several things. My—my superiority in—in age, you know, and all that!”

“What's the matter, Mrs. Folliot?” asked Mary, steeling herself against what she felt sure was coming. “Is it—very serious? And—pardon me—is it about what Mr. Folliot mentioned to me this morning? Because if it is, I'm not going to discuss that with you or with anybody!”

“I had no idea that my husband had been here this morning,” answered Mrs. Folliot in genuine surprise. “What did he want to talk about?”

“In that case, what do you want to talk about?” asked Mary. “Though that doesn't mean that I'm going to talk about it with you.”

Mrs. Folliot made an effort to understand this remark, and after inspecting her hostess critically for a moment, proceeded in her most judicial manner.

“You must see, my dear Miss Bewery, that it is highly necessary that some one should use the utmost persuasion on Dr. Ransford,” she said. “He is placing all of you—himself, yourself, your young brother—in most invidious positions by his silence! In society such as—well, such as you get in a cathedral town, you know, no man of reputation can afford to keep silence when his—his character is affected.”

Mary picked up some needlework and began to be much occupied with it.

“Is Dr. Ransford's character affected?” she asked. “I wasn't aware of it, Mrs. Folliot.”

“Oh, my dear, you can't be quite so very—so very, shall we say ingenuous?—as all that!” exclaimed Mrs. Folliot. “These rumours!—of course, they are very wicked and cruel ones, but you know they have